


Final Stretch

by cyberneticnightmare



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Egg Laying, Implied/Referenced Incest, Masturbation, Minor Dante/Nero (Devil May Cry), Minor Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Multi, No Pregnancy, Other, Oviposition, Post-Devil May Cry 5, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberneticnightmare/pseuds/cyberneticnightmare
Summary: After spending months roaming the Underworld alongside Vergil, Dante finds himself missing most of the creature comforts of the human world: booze, pizza, sex, to name a few. Luckily, someone - or something - is willing to lend a hand (a sneaky snaky tendril, to be more specific).
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Tentacles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Final Stretch

**Author's Note:**

> A super fun commission that I totally forgot to post months ago.

The Underworld is a nasty place for a wide variety of very obvious reasons. Nobody ever visits because they miss the sights or the food – nobody ever visits _period_. The place is on no one’s Top Ten Places to Visit Before You Die list, and even if it was, Dante would rate it a solid one. The one is strictly because there are some places that make him pause and actually admire the hellish landscape just because there are none like it in the human world. Some of them he might even refer to as pretty, in its own terrible way.

Hospitality gets a solid zero, especially when him and his brother get constantly assaulted at any given time of day. The whole shebang gets exhausting after two solid months of continuous fighting, either with each other or whatever sort of gremlin decides to crawl out of the oozingly macabre woodwork.

Dante hates it. He’s getting tired of it and he misses his chair, of all things. To be sitting on it with his feet propped up on his desk, rather than slugging through the humid fumes of decay and demonic juices. He really fucking hates it.

Worse yet is how at home Vergil looks, casually sauntering through waist-high grass-type things that look unpleasantly wet. He cuts them down as he goes, his back to Dante, silent as a cloudless night.

Not much has been said since their mutual dive off the Qliphoth but Dante writes it off as Vergil trying to reconcile himself with his new place in the world. He’s been pseudo-dead for hell knows how long, split into two different beings after a lifetime of being in bad shape, only to come back looking young and whole along with the revelation that he has an adult son. It’s a lot to take in, and Dante somewhat kind of feels bad for him. But only a little bit. So, he gives him all the space he needs while keeping a careful eye on him.

Another thing he misses – courtesy of that stray thought on how much Vergil’s been through – is whiskey. He could go for a shot or three, or even the whole bottle, just because he misses the smooth burn as it slides down his throat. No other reason at all. There’s also pizza, especially from Joey’s Joint, with its soft yet crispy crust and cheese so hot it gets on his glove, the grease a comforting presence and a gentle reminder to do laundry more often. He kind of misses showers, especially after a long couple of days of getting drenched in gore and other ungodly fluids; plus, after three days, his balls get uncomfortably itchy. And speaking of itches, he could really use a flip through a new skin mag. For someone who regularly jerks off out of a lack of anything better to do, going on a dry spell for two months is nothing short of maddening.

Of all the things he misses, however, there is at least one he can grant himself right here and now.

“We should call it in for now,” Dante says loud enough for Vergil to hear.

Vergil stops, turning to him with the same pinched look he’s been wearing since their stint in the Underworld began. "You can’t possibly be tired. It hasn’t been a week and we’ve yet to cut down any more roots.”

“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen any since the last one.” He gestures towards the general area around them. “Looks to me like our job here is done.”

“Not all Qliphoth roots are obviously visible, and neither do they congregate directly underneath the tree. They emerge in clusters across—”

“I _know_ ,” Dante interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I know how they work and how they don’t work, I did my homework.” Whisking the Devil Sword off into the ether, Dante shakes his hands and cracks his knuckles.

Vergil just stares at him and it borders on eerie. “There’s no shelter here,” he says.

“Hm, you’re right. Should’ve booked that bed and breakfast a few sulfur pits back.” Dante shrugs. “It’s as good a place as any.”

There’s a hint of suspicion on Vergil’s face, and it’s a welcome change to the blankness Dante has been dealing all this time with. Seemingly coming to terms with his brother’s proposition, Vergil reaches into his coat and takes out an assortment of materials he’s been gathering for the past several weeks. Putting them on the ground, he arranges them into a sigil.

“For protection,” Vergil says. “So long as we stay within a radius of a few meters, we shouldn’t be sniffed out by demons.”

Dante gawks. “Wait a fucking minute. First of all, how many meters is ‘a few’? And secondly, you mean to tell me you have a way to keep us hidden but you didn’t step the fuck up and, I don’t know, do it?”

“I saw no need to waste what few resources we have. These ingredients are difficult to come by, even in the Underworld. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying the fighting.”

“It’s not like I had any other choice, _Vergil_.”

It’s the older twin’s turn to shrug. “It’s been done. Go about your business while I scout for any other materials capable of providing shelter.” There’s a knowing gleam in Vergil’s eyes that makes Dante look away from him, a hint of heat blooming on his neck. “You’re always so willing to succumb to human hunger.”

“We are half human,” Dante defends, scratching beneath his nose with a sniff. “And what the hell do you know about what—”

“I can feel it,” Vergil says, matter-of-factly. “That incessant thrum of arousal is aggravating and if seeking release will dispel it, then, for whatever is left of my sanity, please do so.”

The horror of knowing that Vergil can sense how he’s feeling is disturbing, especially given he can’t pick up on how he’s feeling in turn. Unless the blank static of anxiety is all Vergil, but that’s less of a feeling and more of a constant state of being. Before he can so much as ask, Vergil is already walking away into the wilderness, Yamato in hand.

“Well that’s fucked up.” Dante remains where he stands, hands on his hips and weighing his options on whether getting his business taken care of here, where he’s certain he won’t be bothered by any stragglers, or elsewhere, where his brother won’t accidentally waltz back in demanding he tuck in and fuck off.

Dante compromises. He wanders into a nearby patch of hellish grass that is deceptively soft to the touch, and after carefully scoping the area for any hidden nasties that may potentially ruin his fun time and finding nothing, Dante decides this is as good a place as any.

He wastes no time as he unbuckles his pants and tugs down the zipper, dipping a gloved hand to roughly squeeze his limp cock. He takes a moment to think up something hot, something that would push his low-grade arousal into a full-fledged hard on, but divine inspiration fails him.

Tits, he ponders. Big, bouncy ones that press against his chest, or his face. His own tits. Hell, Nero’s tits, even, as nonexistent as they are. _Nothing._ Nero’s ass, then, small and tight as it is, most likely untapped. _Nada._ Getting impaled by his brother’s sword, getting impaled by his brother’s other sword, impaling his brother with his sword in turn.

Still, after tugging out his cock and giving it a few strokes, nothing gets the ball rolling. The near-quiet thrum is aggravating, taunting him that maybe being permanently not-quite-horny is some form of punishment that is far worse than being edged.

“Come _on_ ,” he growls, plopping down on the grass to grab himself with two hands rather than one, “I haven’t even peaked yet. It’s way too damn early for my dick not to work.” Laying on his back and spreading his legs, he focuses a hand on his balls, gently rolling and tugging, bouncing them against his palm as his other fist quickly pumps the tip.

While heat does build slowly, he lets go only to snarl in frustration when his still-flaccid cock slumps between his legs.

Dante lays there, glaring up at the never-ending firmament of the Underworld and wondering what he has ever done to deserve this. He jumped into Hell to keep tabs on his brother, to make sure he wasn’t lonely anymore (or that he didn’t do anything stupid), and if that doesn’t make a damn saint, then he doesn’t know what else could canonize him. He clearly doesn’t deserve this.

A tug on his boot has him drawing and shooting one of his twin pistols at whatever may be invading his space within the breadth of a blink, but all he sees is a particularly thick root that had begun wrapping around his ankle. Another root slithers towards him but stops a ways away, rising like a snake inspecting a curious intruder.

Dante cocks his gun. “Can’t a guy just jack off in peace?” The root moves closer to his boot, bumping its blunt end against it, not unlike a dog. It crawls further up Dante’s leg and it elicits a shiver that borders on the pleasurable, as it emanates a dull heat that permeates through the leather of his pants.

Dante keeps still, letting the root explore. In one of the few episodes in which Vergil rambled about the flora of the Underworld, he had mentioned some plants seemingly having a mind of their own, acting as if conscious despite just being vegetation. The nature of the location tended to warp organic things at a molecular level.

Holstering the pistol and holding out his hands, the root comes to it, resting pliantly on his fingers. It’s heavy, firm, much less plant-like than it looks. Its deep red color causes it to blend in with the grass around him. “Try anything funny and I’ll introduce you to my weed whacker.”

Another root eventually peeks out of the grass, taking a similar path to the one the previous one had. However, this one decides to settle on his lap, and after a brief moment of panic, he decides the smooth surface of the appendage feels really damn good against his limp dick. He should push it away, get up, zip up, and find his brother, but another root is crawling towards him, this one thicker, ridged, and Dante pauses when the most twisted of thoughts takes hold.

Leaning back on his hands, Dante waits to see what the roots would do unprompted.

They linger around him, inspecting him idly as if debating what to do, before springing into action.

Dante tenses then slackens, a singe of heat shooting up his spine when one of the roots has the audacity to open up its blunt end and swallow his cock whole. He hisses, nearly melting into the ground as it sucks, its ridged interior hot and unnaturally wet.

“Can’t say I expected that, but if that’s how you want to play it.” He watches intently as it bulges and wanes, drinking the copious amounts of pre-cum he can feel being sucked right out of him. He’s hard now, _finally_ , and he does not care about moving his hips to fuck into the freaky green tube currently sucking him off.

A more spindly, twisted root pushes up underneath his shirt, slithering along his chest and peeking out the unbuttoned top of his Henley. It does a little dance for him, moving in slow circles – like a stripper on a pole – before splitting into two separate little bastards that wave at him before slipping back into his shirt. “Whoa! Hey now, there, easy does it,” he says when their tiny wet heads draw lazy circles around his nipples, reminiscent of tongues.

At the very least, if he lays back and closes his eyes he can pretend he has three hot blondes sucking away at him—but truth be told, he’s liking the idea of getting fondled by sentient plants with no need to riddle with him a fuckload of baggage.

Dante shrugs out of his coat and then removes his shirt, pausing only briefly when a small army of the same roots approach him from all sides. “Try anything too fucky and I won’t hesitate to rip you apart with my teeth.” Fixing them with a glare, he settles onto his back.

They’re all on him in seconds, wiggling their slimy little makeshift-cockheads slash mouths along his chest, stomach, arms—one even gets bold enough to loosely wrap itself around his neck, but not enough to alarm him. Another prods at his lips before he thinks _fuck it_ and lets it slip right in, its sizeable girth sliding along his tongue. Dante doesn’t hesitate to use some teeth as it seems to spur it on, and he hums delightedly when the one on his cock responds in kind: with a wickedly thin vine inside the fleshy tube flicking away at his slit.

Inch by buttery inch, his muscles unwind as the rest of him is worked up to a delicious high. His blood pumps hotly along his limbs, making his balls tighten. He tries to wiggle his pants lower, but his tentacle friends offer him the aid not even immediate family grants.

Pants now around his ankles, a myriad of roots wrap themselves around his calves, spreading him wide on the soft grass. Dante lifts in head in time to see the girthier of all vines drag itself across the ground in the direction of his ass cheeks, the likes of which he clenches when the thought of taking anything up there without copious amounts of lube and prep is no bueno.

It’s all for naught when the bulbous head slides between his cheeks, obscenely slick and squelching as it finds his hole and shoots hot _something_ inside of him. Hot and thick, whatever the gunk is makes his skin tingle, his cock impossibly harder and squirting liberal amounts of pre-cum that is sucked right up by the devil root giving Dante no leniency. 

His lower half numbs, but not enough to make him completely unaware of the incessant poking and prodding behind his balls. The lack of pain receptors makes the pressure more pronounced, the push against the tight ring of muscle insanely pleasurable as he tries to mutter a curse, or maybe ask for more, fuck if he can keep up with his own thoughts anymore. Dante is geared up for the fuck of his life, and if the Underworld considers him some slutty bimbo for it—then fuck them too. With a sword. Or a bullet. Preferable through the chest. Or head; he’s not picky.

The thick root finally pushes its way inside only to pull out with a loud squelch, its ridges dragging along the walls of Dante’s assholes and making his head tip back against the tightened hold of the vines wrapped around his neck. The one in his mouth slides out and he sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs until they burn.

“Holy _shit_. You guys really know how to throw a party, huh? Think Vergil would consider joining?” The vine sucking at his cock pulls off, choosing then to loosely wrap around it, moving in slow undulations that eerily mimic the sensation of a hand job. “Guess I’m getting a full course meal tonight, baby.”

The trail of slick left by the roots briefly burns before settling into a haze, lulling him towards a pliancy he knows is purely influenced by whatever drive to procreate creates the specific pheromone. He is fully aware of his surroundings, along for the ride as a consequence of the brain-numbing boredom, but he is also curious as to how his veggie partners multiply. They are not born from the Qliphoth, so that writes out the possibility of spores made of human blood… unless there is another demon tree that follows the same infernal biology and Vergil failed to mention it. He doubts it.

The stretch of penetration makes his thighs tremble where they are held apart, exposing him as he is fucked senseless by a root that does not hesitate to use him. It pushes in deep and then comes all the way out, twisting, drilling him, stretching him, pumping him full of slick that drips out of him with every forceful thrust.

Sweat gathers on Dante’s forehead, making his hair stick to it and obstruct his view of the obscene fuck. He goes to swipe it back, but his hands are bound to the grassy ground, keeping him pinned down for the ride. “Gimme some slack here,” he says in attempt to bargain but all he gets is a tightening of every single fleshy tendril on him. “Snaky bastards.”

He moans when the root in his ass thickens, one of its protruding ridges stroking his prostate and Dante cums without so much a warning from his own body. “Fuck, yes! Oh, shit, that’s fucking good.” But fuck-all knows it’s not enough. He is still hard, still horny, and he could easily milk at least another three rounds out of this. “C’mon, little shitheads. S’that all you got? Give it to me.”

For the first time in his life, Dante gets what he asks for.

Impressed by the strength of the vines, he huffs when he’s flipped onto his front without effort. Forced onto his knees, the side of his face itching despite the flattened state of the grass he was just laying on, Dante wiggles his ass in invitation. “Fill me up, baby. This sweet little ass can take it.”

There’s more slick now dribbling down his thighs, the tinier of the roots licking it up with the sensation of a dozen tongues on him, the girth inside of him pulsing as it thrusts in short bursts before pushing deeper. Dante grits his teeth when the sensation edges on pain, the goddamn root nearly scrambling his organs as it fucks him into the ground like an animal in a rut.

Still, he laughs. “Face down, ass up tends to be a fave when I’m not the one in this position, but you know, we’re trying stuff out today.” A root of considerable thickness shoves itself into his mouth, effectively shutting him up. _Fine then_ , he thinks to himself as his eyes roll towards the back of his head when his prostate is hit yet again, drool pooling as his face is fucked just as viciously as his ass.

Dante is blissed out of his mind as his body is rocked without his input. Fucking without having to put in any effort has always been a far off fantasy, one he tried to indulge in during his youth but only got him kicked out of dive bars with a serious case of blue balls. Trust the Underworld to deliver on something humans consider messed up and bless his genetics that allow him to withstand the brutal complexities of getting stuffed with minimal struggle.

An unfamiliar hardness brings him out of it, however, and he tries looking over his shoulder to see just what it is that is spreading his hole far bigger than the already unrealistically thick root still fucking him in earnest. The vines around his neck keep him pinned as the hardness moves past the abused ring of muscles to settle heavy and warm in his gut.

The sensation is unsettling. Instinct scatters inside of his skull, alerting him that he is not designed to receive this. Incompatible anatomy despite the demonic blood. No interspecies breeding for him, not that he wants to, especially not with a fucking plant, but the feeling of whatever that hardness is breaching his entrance to settle inside of him is intoxicating when mixed with the slick.

His cock bobs underneath him, aching again, untouched. It is only then that he notices he is no longer being serviced and is instead grappled so that his dance partner can finally commit to what it came for. Apparently, Dante supplies the warm and living body it likes despite it being unfertile ground. Not like it matters. He’s here to get his rocks off and he would be doing exactly that if his hands were but, hey, a little edging never killed anyone. Especially not him.

Dante relaxes his limbs, allowing the tendrils to keep him where they want as he continues to take it, one bulbous blip after the other, popping into his ass and shifting to settle as best they can within the confines of his body. It does not take long before he can feel his body change to accommodate the intrusions, his abdomen swelling as his cock spurts a second wave of cum without even needing to be touched.

He continues to be fucked through it, the added weight making his thighs tremble and throat flex with the need to make some sort of sound, but all he gets is a tiny vine sweeping the hair back out of his eyes for his troubles. Dante glares at it, bites down on the root in his mouth, finally causing it to slip out with an aggravatedly flinch. “Motherfucker.”

Time itself is already an unreliable concept in the bowels of Hell, but it becomes more so while drunk on pheromones, two orgasms (or has it been three?), a dozen or so equivalents to tongues, mouths, hands, and dicks, and an uncanny pool of _something_ glowing hotly in his gut. Dante has no idea how much time has passed since the whole ordeal started, but he is miffed at the fact that Vergil hasn’t come looking for him. It isn’t like he wandered off too far to begin with. _Whatever, he can jerk off on his own for all I care,_ he ponders once the root in his ass finally slides out of him.

Like hitting a light, he is dropped onto the soiled ground.

Dante is left gazing blankly at the inky sky, too heavy and numb to properly move. He presses a hand down on his swollen abdomen, creeped out by the thought that not even pizza can get him like this, but he figures it is a small price to pay for such a wild ride. He rubs and massages the distended surface, feeling his innards rearrange with a distinctive throb he is still uncertain whether he likes or not.

Not like it matters. The feeling creeps lower, and his already sore ass spreads to return whatever the fuck that root nonchalantly left inside of him. It pops out of him with a sticky residue, the slick cooling and easing its passage but not enough to keep him from wincing. Again and again, the sensation makes him squirm in the same way oversized anal beads would, and Dante cannot help but take hold of his spent cock.

He jerks himself off to the tempo of the throbbing, grunting feebly, breathlessly, as his legs scramble, his body pushing out the last of the intrusions until he is empty, laying on that grassy patch like a whore’s sloppy fourths.

It’s fucking fantastic.

The brief idea of having both Vergil and Nero in the same position as him, preferably together, gets him going one last time. Fondling his balls and focusing on the cockhead, both smeared with the miracle jelly of the Underworld, Dante moans his release to the mental image of father and son side by side, railed mercilessly as he watches them come undone with equal looks of infuriated pleasure.

Now, he is well and truly fucked out, pointedly not looking at the fleshy egg-shaped pods that briefly occupied his insides. The Underworld is a fucked up place, but at the very least he can get some kinky, fucked up sex out of it. For the time being, he doesn’t plan on moving.

If Vergil wants him, he’s going to have to come and get him.


End file.
